December 12th 1980

Life is transient, fleeting, brief
And death and ageless, wanton thief.
Some are taken, know no more,
Others, quiet, pass through the door.
There is no question asked, no plea.
The age is reached, no clemency.

Youth expects the years go on.
The future beckons to its son.
Springs and autumns bloom and seed.
The spark burns bright. Go win, succeed.
The head is high, the steps is firm.
Life is to live, the hours to burn.

Life is to share a sweet wife’s love,
Take in both hands, create and prove.
Then at its height the coldness breaks
And life the threatening phantom takes.
Not quickly, cleanly, without pain,
But sending notice. Clouds mean rain.

It takes its time but time is fleet.
The nights are long, the dawns are sweet.
The journey’s dim, a frightening haze.
Hands that comfort, eyes that gaze.
Within alone; the phantom makes
And keeps the solitary soul awake.

Where peace and rest escape him now,
Sleep is sweet where pains allow.
The hands and voices, cloudy, dim,
Oppressive, shroud-like, cover him.
But isolation stays intact
And fear intractable, a fact.

Was it only weeks or years
The parents shed their wedding tears?
The bed shared then was soft and warm,
This one of love and comfort shorn.
The next will dark and lonely be.
Where then is life - and where is he?

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